


The Stranger

by Gnomey507



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Martin Freeman - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rugby, John Plays Rugby, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomey507/pseuds/Gnomey507
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds himself obsessed with the tall intense stranger who sits in on his Rugby practices every Tuesday without a word, but what will happen when he finally chooses to confront the the man who has captured his mind? Will he tell him to simply sod off, or will John learn something new about himself? Rated E for a reason. One-Shot AU Rugby John</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ClueingLooks.tumblr.com for HN Secret Cupid!

Part One - The Stranger

John had seen him there, sitting on the side of the pitch every Tuesday like clockwork, never saying anything, never speaking to anyone, just observing. Although as often as this stranger had come, John could never quite place why he was there. Clearly the posh sort, well dressed, far more well dressed than anyone else who would come to watch Rugby practice. He was lean and fragile looking, any one person on this team could snap him in half, even John who was quite a bit shorter than this invading stranger. The first time John had seen him there, sitting in the bleachers on the side of the pitch, he'd not even given him a second glance. He certainly didn't appear to be the sort of chap who would be friends with anyone on the team, what would they have in common, so perhaps a boyfriend? He was certainly attractive enough to be, with cheekbones that could give you a paper cut, and skin so fair it was nearly translucent. John had shook that thought off immediately, positive no one on the team would go that way. So John was left to assume that this silent observer, was just what he seemed to be, an observer. He'd not given him another thought, though the stranger returned and watched every Tuesday practice, never saying a word, never interfering. John tried his hardest to not allow his presence to bother him, but he was always sitting there in the back of his mind, pressing on his last nerve, whether he wished to admit it or not. The sheer mystery of him began to keep him up at night.

"Stamford!" John called out, picking up his pace just enough to catch up with a much taller stockier man, the sort of man who looked like he was born to play Rugby. He and John had met in their first year of University, it had been Mike Stamford who had convinced John to join the rugby team in the first place. Catching up with his friend, John shifted his gear bag on his shoulder, taking longer strides to keep pace, his thighs burning after a particularly long practice.

"Hey Watson, you played a good game today, I'm bloody exhausted. Are you heading home now, because a couple of the mates and I are heading down to the pub for a pint or two."

John had always found it quite frustrating, the way that Stamford could fit in a million things at once, and right now it was distracting him from his purpose. "Yeah mate that sounds good, but listen, I had a question for you." How exactly could he phrase it without it coming off sounding as if he meant something entirely different? He already felt like an outsider amongst the herd, no need to make it any worse. "I was just wondering, you know that guy who watches practice every Tuesday?" His eyes were already scanning the area, but it seemed as if his mystery had already disappeared, as he did after nearly every practice.

"Yeah, the gangly one. Looks a little bit of a poofter if you ask me."

John's stomach churned with distaste for Stamford's choice of wording, but he brushed it aside. Over the years he'd become quite immune to this sort of attitude, even sometimes finding himself going along with it. Though John primarily dated women, it had been his draw to Stamford which had convinced him to play Rugby in the first place, only any sort of feelings were squashed out immediately after going to the pub with them once, and John had long since decided to push any of those thoughts and feelings from his mind. The last thing he needed was slack from anyone, to be called a poofter or a queen over something he'd only ever dreamt of acting on."Yeah, that's the one... Anyway I was just wondering if you knew who he was? It's a little weird, he's always hanging around."

Stamford shrugged it off. "Nah, no clue. I think he just hangs out. Why?"

"No reason, just curious is all." John spat off quickly, "I think I'm going to head back to the flat, what pub for later?"

"Old Bell, see you there."

"Cheers." John offered warmly before parting ways with Stamford, far more frustrated than before he'd decided to even try asking him.

John was unsure when it had happened, but this mysterious onlooker had demanded his attention, and was not letting go. He let it occupy his mind nearly all week, distracting him from his classes, classes he needed to pass in order to keep up in medical school. It began keeping him up at night, unable to extract from his mind the intensity in which the stranger watched the pitch, how every now and then John would look over and their eyes would meet, a strange yet... enticing, mix of green and blue, unblinking.

Tossing and turning in bed, John tried desperately to push the images of the pale stranger from his mind, until finally he couldn't take it anymore. He needed to know who this guy was, it was distracting him from everything. He needed to confront him, get him to leave. He'd confront him, Tomorrow after practice, no matter what, even if it meant he'd have to chase him down from the pitch and tackle him to the ground and sit on his narrow chest until he got what he needed from him. John's stomach churned as he thought about the sight of his enigma struggling beneath him, his cheeks flushed pink with effort. _No_. John would not allow himself to think like that. He rolled over onto his stomach, wincing at the way his hardness pressed angrily between his body and the bed, he punched the pillow a few times before burying his face into it. This had been going on for too long now. Tomorrow, he'd confront him tomorrow no matter what.

Part Two - The Confrontation

John stretched out before practice, standing on the pitch with the rest of his mates. It was like any other practice, apart from the fact that his stomach was in knots over what was to come next. His eyes scanned the pitch in search the tall stranger, feeling his stomach drop when he found the bleachers empty. He fixed his kit, making sure his socks were pulled up evenly to distract from his disappointment, before stretching his back again, spreading his legs and leaning down to the ground, stretching each side by grabbing his ankle. _Better off_ , John thought bitterly, _It's not like you would have known what to say anyway_.

"John." The familiar voice of Stamford called, snapping John out of his fit of sour grapes. "You've got an audience mate!" John's head snapped up quick enough to see Stamford motioning to the bleachers, where the stranger was sitting, his eyes fixed intently on John, the strange mix of green and blue burning into him. John felt his cheeks go immediately pink to his dismay, looking away quickly. "I wouldn't bend down like that with that poofter watching you." Stamford teased, punching John's shoulder.

It felt as if someone had seized John's stomach and was twisting it tightly, he suddenly had the urge to either be sick all over the pitch or run off before anything could happen. Sucking it up he laughed awkwardly, punching Stamford's arm in return. "Let's get this game going, yeah?"

John was unable to get the intensity of the stranger's eyes out of his mind while he played, the nerves over Stamford's comments, the fact that Stamford's comments were even a thought. Did he always watch John like that? If so, how had John missed that? Like a spider spinning a web, John attempted desperately to contrive a plan to confront him. He always ran off right after practice before John could even gather his things, in the beginning John had begun to wonder whether or not he was really there. Today though, he couldn't allow him to escape, he needed to confront him, if to do nothing else but tell him to stay the bloody hell away. John found himself so distracted through all of practice he allowed himself to be sacked no less than five times, and when the final whistle was blown and the practice brought to an end, he was limping with exhaustion and a sore back, unsure whether or not he'd be able to take another minute of the brutal beating he was receiving that day.

John's infuriating stranger was still sitting there by the time John was finally able to peel himself up off the grass, to his relief. He was afraid he'd take off again before John had the opportunity to corner him. Without a second thought of what to say, John found himself jogging across the pitch to the bleachers, desperate to catch him before he ran off again and disappeared until next Tuesday. "Hey you!" John called, when he approached the solemn bleachers where the stranger sat completely alone.

John's stranger looked much younger up close, though still only a year or two younger than John. He was slighter than John had expected, but appeared much taller. He also appeared as a deer in the headlights, John nearly expected him to go darting off into the abyss instead of sitting through this confrontation. "You're coming over here to find out why I come and watch you play Rugby every week." He stated flatly, not moving from his spot on the bleacher as if he were carved of alabaster, the only thing moving were his eyes as he looked over John who stood there exhausted, covered in grass stains, sweat, and dirt.

John furrowed his brows taking in the coolness of his stranger, thrown off by the way he didn't miss a beat, the confrontation suddenly felt so out of his hands. "Yeah." He tried to keep his voice as dominating as possible, but his mind hadn't skipped over the _watch you play_ part, _you_. "You're here every Tuesday, what's your deal?"

Keeping his face impassive John's stranger shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "I'm bored and I like to watch."

Unsure why this infuriated him so, John felt the need to lash out at him. "Well can you not? It's bloody distracting. Go find something else to do with your Tuesday afternoon?"

It was John's stranger's turn to furrow his brows, "You are afraid your Rugby mates are going to start getting suspicious about why you've been so interested in me."

It was less of a question and more of a statement, one that made John's blood boil, but he was at a loss for words, completely devoid of a witty comeback. He stood there in silence for a long moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, the weight of his stranger's eyes boring into him, and John had the overwhelming feeling that this strange man could see straight through him. "What's your name anyway?" He demanded, glad no one from the team was close enough to have heard that last comment.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, that's a weird name." John turned the name over in his mind, he'd never met anyone named Sherlock before. "I'm John, John Watson."

"Studying to become a doctor."

"How'd you know that?" John demanded, looking around the pitch again nervously.

"Easy, the bags under your eyes tell me that you are a student who spends a considerable amount of time studying, though you don't look to be a university age student so I can only assume that you're going to pursue further education, specifically that of the science field, judging by the way you've bitten down your nails from the stress of your exams. You carry a University of London bag, though I saw you arrive in scrubs one day, so I assume you are working on more right now, certainly you are not a nurse judging by the serious look to you, so a doctor."

John stood there in awe for a moment, taking in his words. "Amazing." He found himself saying before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat awkwardly, happy to see that the rest of the team had by this point cleared the field, leaving just John and his stranger he was now able to identify as Sherlock. "And you? You're a student?" He would not even pretend to know, he'd rather admit his defeat than make a fool of himself attempting to guess.

"Sort of." Sherlock answered flatly, "I'm on leave right now from Cambridge."

A slight warmth of achievement, John had been right, he was the posh sort, and at least old enough to be hard-on producing in John's fantasies. "So why me?" John demanded again, trying his hardest to meet Sherlock's intense eyes, trying to blink as little as possible and deny the urge to shy away from his gaze. "Why do you come and watch me? You don't know me."

Sherlock shrugged again, to John's chagrin, being the first to break the staring contest. "Because I've nothing better to do, since I’m technically supposed to be somewhere else right now, and you are mildly attractive and clearly gay, or at least bisexual." John felt his ears burn pink, "I myself am gay, in case you were wondering. You clearly don't want your teammates to know which is why I've stayed out of the way, sat on the side and observed. I knew you'd eventually come over."

"How can you tell?" John found himself asking, hating himself for not being angry like he should be.

"Easy, I knew the first time you looked at me, it wasn't exactly the way a straight man looks at his peers, but if that wasn't enough there's the careful way you keep yourself groomed, clean cut hair, fresh shave, fit. Not to mention you always seem out of place with your teammates, the way you step back slightly any time anyone makes a slur, always answer noncommittally."

John felt considerably more self conscious now, wondering if everyone could see it, or Sherlock was just acutely observant. He hoped the latter. "So that's it? You just come to watch me play, in hopes of someday I'd come over here and chat you up?"

"I knew it would happen eventually." Sherlock got up from the bleachers, and hopped onto the ground with a level of ease that John would not have imagined someone as tall and lanky as him could possess. "I was hoping that now that we've gotten that all out of the way, we could take this somewhere a little different. I'm not one for the outdoors."

"You mean like on a date?" John asked stupidly, taking in the height of Sherlock, he was considerably taller than John, yet still more fragile looking, with a mess of curly black hair that seemed to make him just a little bit taller.

"No." Sherlock's tone was flat, almost bored. "I was rather hoping you'd be a bit more bright than that. Like perhaps yours for a good shag."

The forwardness of the situation threw John whether or not he wanted to admit it, yet he found himself answering without thinking. "Yeah, I'm only a few blocks from here. Let me just get my gear." He scurried away from his new friend, to shove all his things back into his pack before slinging the bag over his shoulder and jogging back over to Sherlock. His heart was nearly pounding out his chest. He'd never done this before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything, and the idea of having Sherlock, this strange and beautiful stranger, spread out beneath John was almost too enticing. Besides everyone from the team had either gone home or to the pub, and he and Sherlock would pass neither of those two things on their way back to John's flat.

They walked home in almost complete silence, John's heart racing with anticipation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good shag, though he'd never imagined that his next time would be with a man. It wasn't until John was keying into the building that it even occurred to him that perhaps Sherlock wouldn't want to be the one doing the receiving, and John wasn't sure just how comfortable he was with the idea of having something shoved up his ass, though he could assume not too comfortable right now. Sherlock had such a domineering personality from what John could tell so far, he had a hard time imagining him being so willing to submit easily, but he wouldn't be okay the other way around so John knew he needed to suck it up.

Nervously he guided Sherlock into the lift, and furiously pounded the button for the tenth floor, in his mind going over a mental checklist to make sure that everything was cleared up, nothing too horrifying left out for his guest to see. Though if John thought the ride in the lift took years, the walk down the corridor took centuries. His body was ablaze with a raging mix of nerves and hormones. Overwhelmed with the anticipation of how different this would be from what he was used to. He fumbled with this keys as he unlocked the door, dropping his bag just inside the foyer before allowing Sherlock to glide into the apartment. With a burst of confidence he grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulling him back before Sherlock could venture any further into the flat and pushing him hard up against the wall of the foyer. John had to push himself up onto his tiptoes to meet his lips, but he did, pressing his body hard against Sherlock's, pinning him there between his body and the wall. His lips worked fiercely, dominating the moment as he guided Sherlock's lips open and closed with his own, letting his tongue dance along Sherlock's lower lip before nibbling it.

John felt a sigh of relief as he felt Sherlock's body melt into the kiss, the taller man's hands knotting into John's sandy blonde hair, returning the kiss with nearly the same amount, if not more fervor. Sherlock’s lips were stronger than a womans, rougher, though it surely helped that Sherlock was not a gruff man. John's dirty Rugby kit rubbed against Sherlock's perfectly pressed shirt, no doubt dirtying it, but John loved the idea of it, eager to see the layer of dirt and sweat that would mark the pure white dress shirt. Sherlock seemed to be sinking against the wall, driving his hips against John's, John could already feel the bulge growing in his companion’s trousers, urging his own cock into hardness at the friction. He pulled back from Sherlock only long enough to look at his blue-green irises; heterochromia. "Suck it." John's voice was gruffer than he would have imagined, as he commanded the taller man, who stood before him breathless. Taking a step back John, pulled his shorts and pants down around his thighs, giving his prick a few hard tugs to get it to full mast.

There was nothing quite like the way that Sherlock dropped down to his knees so willingly without the slightest bit of struggle or complaining. Girls could be difficult about this, but there was nothing he loved more than having his cock buried down the throat of his partner. John's hands laced into Sherlock's hair, stroking the curls back gently, before clenching his fist in it. Sherlock fumbled through his pockets almost nervously, until finally retrieving a little foil wrapped packet. His fingers fumbled as he tried to rip it, finally giving up and tearing it open with his teeth. He rolled the latex barrier down John's prick before getting to work. Taking a moment to sit back on his heels and take in the sight of John's cock. Sherlock gave it a few hard pumps, twisting his fist on the upstroke, as his thumb grazed the head. John moaned, bucking his hips forward with a groan. "What are you waiting for!"

Sherlock could give no response though for he'd taken John's prick into his mouth, and had hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard on his girth before letting his lips slide down inch by inch, pulling back with every bit of progress; one inch forward, two inches back, until he pulled completely off, peppering the tip of John's cock with gentle kisses before swirling his tongue against the glans. John let out a throaty moan, his hand tightening in Sherlock's hair as he pushed his hips forward against Sherlock's closed lips, desperate to have them wrapped around his cock again.

In response to John's pushiness, Sherlock nuzzled John's head with his nose, before working his lips up the underside of his shaft, his hands massaging and tugging at John's balls. He moved his lips slowly until he reached the tip again, taking it into his mouth graciously and letting it slip down his throat again, all the way to the base. John bucked forward, feeling the tip of his cock brush the back of Sherlock's throat. He held Sherlock's head there, bucking his hips lightly, unable to slip in any further than he was but still thrusting lightly regardless. Sherlock made a gagging noise, but did not seem to struggle against John's thrusts. John was nearly knocked from his feet when Sherlock began to hum lightly, the vibrations in the back of Sherlock's throat, buzzing against his head.

John pulled back from Sherlock's mouth, not ready to come just yet, he wanted this to last. Watching Sherlock gasp for breath was enticing though, and before Sherlock could fully work out his breathing again, John had the tip of his prick pressed against Sherlock's lips for a second time. "Open you mouth." He commanded, stroking Sherlock's head comfortingly, "And relax your jaw, I want to fuck your throat." He'd never been a particularly adventurous lover, yet watching Sherlock with his cheeks flushed trying to catch his breath urged him on. John was afraid that if he let down his guard for even a moment he would lose control of the moment, his dominance would be taken from him.

Sherlock did as he was told, opening his mouth as wide as he could, not once breaking eye contact with John as John placed his hand against the wall for balance, his other hand still knotted in Sherlock's hair. He slipped his cock back into Sherlock's mouth, using the grip on Sherlock's hair to push his mouth down on his prick, John bucked forward wantonly, feeling Sherlock's nose press against his pelvis. It was almost too much and in moments, he was fucking Sherlock's throat roughly, thrusting into his mouth again and again until he felt himself on the brim of orgasm, only then pulling back too look at Sherlock, who had a little dribble of spit, falling from the side of his mouth as he tried to catch his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, standing again to crash his lips against Johns.

John pulled back from the kiss, working the buttons of Sherlock's shirt open until the expanse of his milky chest was exposed. John dragged his lips over the pallid skin, taking in every inch of it, before unfastening Sherlock's trousers and working down the zip. "Where do you want me to take you?" John asked gruffly, forcing Sherlock's pants and trousers down his thighs, making the taller man step out of them as he shrugged the dress shirt off his shoulders. He had a beautiful body, John admired it. A long narrow cock, hard and already dripping with a bead of precum. John gave it a few hard pumps making Sherlock groan out, melting under John's touch. "I can fuck you right here in the hall, press you up against the wall." He released Sherlock's cock in order to spin the taller man's body so his face was pressed against the wall of the foyer, genuinely surprising himself and the taller man. He pulled back on Sherlock's hips, reaching around his lean body to continue pumping his cock. "All the neighbors would be able to hear you scream here." He was unsure where this side was coming from, he'd never been like this with anyone before, yet he could think of no other way to be with Sherlock right now.

Sherlock's fingers scratched against the wall of the foyer looking for purchase against the wall, but finding nothing instead. John pressed his cock against the cleft of Sherlock's ass, feeling the warmth of his cheeks envelop his cock, he pistoned his hips slightly relishing the glide of skin. "Not here." Sherlock groaned, bucking his hips forward as John used the bead of Sherlock's precum to rub over his cock.

John released Sherlock, and left him to follow. He made his way into the living room and into the bedroom, where he pulled back the comforter, discarding it onto the floor. The sheets meant far less to John than the comforter did. If they were covered with cum in the end of the night he'd know he did something right. "Get on your hands and knees." He commanded Sherlock, who had obediently followed.

Obediently Sherlock climbed onto the mattress and put himself on his hands and knees just as John had commanded of him. Going to the side table, John dug in the top drawer for the bottle of lube he kept there, before joining Sherlock on the bed. He pressed down on Sherlock's shoulder blades, forcing his face into the mattress, Sherlock went down with ease, closing his eyes as he arched his back for John, soaking in the rush of adrenaline. John pulled his shorts and pants completely off, not bothering with his socks or jersey, but instead slicking his own cock with the lubricant before coating his two fingers, and using them to work Sherlock's hole open, starting with a single digit and finding that it slid in with ease, adding a second and then a third. Sherlock groaned into the sheets, and John smiled, loving the way his hips bucked, as his cock ached to be touched. John knew anatomy, it was part of his job to know anatomy. He curled his fingers searching for that spot that he knew would drive Sherlock insane, curling his fingers forward, he relished in the sight of Sherlock spasming as John stroked his prostate with three fingers. He did this over and over, drowning in Sherlock's moans.

"John please..." Sherlock groaned into the blanket, his hips rutting with need, forcing himself back against John's fingers, his body clenching around those three fingers buried deep inside of him. "Fuck me, please just fuck me." He was positively gagging for it, and John was happy to oblige. He pulled his fingers from Sherlock's ass, and used the lubricant one last time to slick his own cock, before leaning over Sherlock's body. The first push was the best, the way it felt when the tip of his cock breached Sherlock's sphincter, before slipping in with ease. He started slowly, the heat and tightness almost too much, John thought for a minute he was going to blow his load before he even had a chance to start. He'd never been buried in someone's ass before, it was wonderful, the best feeling he'd encountered. He slid almost completely out, until his tip was only stretching Sherlock, before sliding in again, this time an inch further than before. He continued this process until he was buried as deeply as Sherlock's body would allow. "Oh god John." Sherlock's voice was a quavering mess, his one fist having moved down to his own cock, pumping it slowly. "Harder," he begged. "I'm not delicate! Fuck me for Christ's sake!"

Smiling at the brazenness of it, John gave Sherlock's ass a little slap before obliging, his thrusts growing with force, each thrust sending Sherlock's body hurtling forward. Sherlock stroked his cock in sync with John's pushes, when John began to pick up the pace, driving Sherlock's body down into the mattress, a well placed hand in the middle of Sherlock's back keeping him down, Sherlock's hand began to move fast, quick sloppy strokes desperate to reach his orgasm, nearly there with the way John's cock stroked his prostate with each push. It only took a few moments for Sherlock to cum, shooting his seed over John's sheets with a cry. That was all John needed, the last few thrusts were the hardest, purposeful, wonderful as Sherlock's walls contracted against John's cock milking him as John came, collapsing down a top Sherlock, a panting sweating mess.

Sherlock's hips collapsed against the mattress, and John pulled out of his ass, wincing with sensitivity. He sat at the edge of the bed pulling the full condom off his cock and tossing it into the bin by the side of his bed, glad to be rid of that confining piece of latex. Sherlock was a panting mess, trying to gather himself, collect his breath, steady his heart. John loved the idea of his collapsed body laying in the mess of sticky cum he'd shot over the sheets. Shifting his position on the bed, John rested his back against the headboard beside Sherlock, his hand going to Sherlock's head, stroking his hair softly, while his partner put himself together again. "You were amazing." John reassured Sherlock, "The first man I've ever had." He laughed to himself at that notion. How had he spent all this time missing out on this? How stupid he'd been.

Sherlock sat up when he'd composed himself enough, "Perhaps next time I can have a go at you."

John clenched his jaw. "Next time?" He'd never been one for one night stands, but he knew nothing about this man in bed with him, the fact that he'd even brought him home at all was a shock to John, he never did things like this.

"I still plan on attending Rugby practice, it only makes sense this should happen again." Sherlock stated as if it were the most obvious thing.

"Right... and perhaps not." He cleared his throat, the images of Sherlock writhing in pleasure though seemed to overwhelm him. All those gay men could not be wrong, right? Besides John had always been the nostalgic one, and something as Sherlock being his first man, why shouldn't he be the first to take John. John's stomach flipped with a mix of nerves and butterflies. What had this stranger done to him, this man who sat every Tuesday and watched him play Rugby for weeks on end with no explanation. This strange eccentric stranger. This enticing stranger. John caught himself smiling in spite of himself, pleased he'd found the balls to confront him today. "At least not yet."


End file.
